Witcher: War Stories
by wilsonnatef
Summary: A story about Captain Dece, the leader of Queen Calanthe's vanguard.


Drece could barely hear. The clash of steel on steel drowned out the cries of the dying. Drece was partially thankful for that. He could only taste the familiar coppery taste of blood. As far as he knew he was the only surviving member of his company. He was part of Queen Calanthe's vanguard, the most elite troops in all of Cintra.

He had lost sight of his company's banner and knew at least most had fallen. In front of him there was a single Nilfgaardian man. His black armor painted with the likeness of their damned Great Sun was a stark contrast to the shiny, yet some what tarnished, steel of his armor. The soldier charged at Drece. Once the soldier was upon him Drece smashed his shield into the Nilfgaardian soldiers jaw. There was an audible thud followed by a sickening crack.

To finish the poor sod off he hit the man with his armored elbow. The soldier fell into his comrades and brought several of them down with him. There was a massive tangle of limbs and weapons lying in front of Drece. Drece planted his one of his steel plated booth on one of the men's heads. He pushed down with as much strength as he could and felt their head cave in. A member of the Nausicaa cavalry came flying towards him at amazing speeds.

Drece waited until the rider was almost upon him and sidestepped while plunging his sword into the horses flank. The animal tumbled, bringing it's rider along with rider quickly recovered and swung his almost hammer-like weapon at Drece. Drece caught the weapon between it's cheek and neck (A.N. Note that this is the weapon not the rider. I googled parts of a hammer for this). He quickly spun his sword, and pulled the weapon out of the man's grasp. Now defenseless, the former-rider tried to kick out Drece's lightly-armored knee.

Drece used the opportunity to slice the man's jugular. The man's blood spurted out of his neck. The man looked at Drece. Drece could see the eyes of the man. They were filled with terror, knowing his fate was inevitable. His eyes rolled up exposing the whites and the man fell to his knees, and finally,fell over.

Drece saw something in the distance. It was his company's banner, trampled, but intact. A sense of duty came over Drece. He put his shoulder out in front of him and charged. He leaped over the dead horse hind legs, and stumbled a little bit. He kept running, shoving every Nilfgaardian that got in his way. He reached his company's banner.

It was tattered and worn but the insignia of the Cintran lions mixed with the Skellige longboat. Drece bent over, putting a strain on his knees, and picked it up. He lifted it up far above his head. There was a resounding cheer once the rest of the Cintran soldiers had seen the flag of the vanguard. It was a symbol of hope for them, that the vanguard survives. Followed by this cheer was a horn.

Even above the din of the fighting it was heard. Drece's heart sank. It was sounding the retreat. He knew there was no way they would be able to defeat the Nilfgaardian horde, but the battle had only been going on for around two hours that day. Had they really lost that many men? Drece,standard in hand, started to back away from the fighting. He kept his sword extended out in front of him just as a precaution, but he was of no consequence to the Nilfgaardians.

What is but one man against an army. Soon he had turned and started a full-on he would stumble over a stray arm of a corpse, a discarded shield, or an enlarged tree root. He had been running for what felt like an hour when he came up over a hill and first gazed upon the remains of the Cintran army. By his estimation there could not be more than two hundred men. He hurried down the hill to meetup with the soldiers so as not to be thought dead or a deserter.

For some reason he had still not abandoned the standard of his supposed he could be called dangerously sentimental but shrugged it off. Soldiers started to notice him and shouted at the soldiers to look. He could only imagine what they were thinking. A few of them rushed to meet him. Chief among them was his friend Aedris. He had always known how to cheer him up, and now that seemed to be his chief concern.

As Aedris approached he had a grim look on his face. His normally friendly, and joyful face contorted into an ugly grimace. Dece cocked an eyebrow at his friend.

"What's with that look on your face? Shouldn't you be jumping for joy to see the last of the vanguard?" Dece asked quizzically.

"Dece, Eist Tuirsech is dead. Calanthe was wounded," He said in a slightly harsh tone.

"What? How did this happen! How is there still an army!" Dece exclaimed.

He was astonished. Eist Tuirsech was one of the most renowned fighters in Skellige. Queen Calanthe was no one to be trifled with either. The men had taken to calling her the battleaxe of Cintra. She had a fiery temper that earned her great ire in northern politics. Both of them seemed like larger-than-life figures that couldn't be defeated.

"There isn't an army. There are only remnants and scraps. We're losing men by the hour, whether it be to injury or desertion. Queen Calanthe ordered us to retreat back to Cintra itself. It's the only place we can possibly hold them." Aedris stated with the same gloomy expression.

"Has there been any attempt to reach the other northern kingdoms? Surely once they hear of this they will send aid! There is no way they would let Nilfgaard march right up to their doorstep without a fight!" Dece exclaimed incredulously.

"For our sake, and Cintra's sake I hope you're right Dece. IF you're wrong we are in deep shit and I don't know if we'll get out of it." Aedris said quietly.


End file.
